


Snapshots

by Birdbitch



Category: Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, SHAKESPEARE William - Works
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2013-10-22
Packaged: 2018-01-17 16:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1395409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdbitch/pseuds/Birdbitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He meets Mercutio when he is almost eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Snapshots

The first time Benvolio meets Mercutio, he is on the verge of eleven years old and Mercutio has just recently turned ten. Romeo stands off to the side, a quiet little boy of eight who is afraid of most other people—and Mercutio, even then, is terrifying and loud. Benvolio thinks he likes it, thinks he wouldn’t mind being Mercutio’s friend if he’ll let him. He doesn’t know it, but that’s—that’s really part of the reason why he and Romeo were brought to this meeting between the Prince and Lord Montague; Mercutio has a little brother, Valentine, but he’s not much fun to play with given that he’s barely five, and he has a cousin, Paris, but Paris is fifteen and a little too old to be any kind of friend. Lord Montague, cunning as he is, realized that the last time he met with the Prince and decided, this time, to bring his nephew and son with him—a friendship would be beneficial at the very least.

Mercutio gives up on scaring Romeo when it becomes obvious that Romeo is an unfortunately easy target, and turns instead to stare at Benvolio with big, liquid eyes. (Benvolio, secretly, thinks that he looks like one of the cherubs painted on the walls of the family chapel where he sits and is supposed to pray every Sunday, but he feels that if he were to tell Mercutio this, he’d take it the wrong way.)

“Benvolio,” he says, and it comes off his tongue like he’s practiced, like he was told by the Prince before the visit precisely how to say the name, “Wilt thou entertain me?”

“What is there to do?” Mercutio’s face turns into a grin that Benvolio will, over the years, become well acquainted with, but at the present moment has no idea what it signifies.

“Come,” Mercutio says, taking Benvolio’s hand, “there is a place I know. Romeo may come too, if he so wishes.” The last part is cast over his shoulder, and Romeo, though in many ways frightened of Mercutio, is also too afraid of what might happen should he choose not to join them. He comes forward, grabs onto Benvolio’s arm, and they follow Mercutio past the main foyer and into the courtyard of the palazzo.

Time passes and eventually, Romeo is able to get past the initial veneer of shyness and Mercutio, though teasing as that appears to be his nature, grows somewhat kinder to him, and Benvolio, all the while, thinks he might understand now what his mama used to tell him about falling in love.

—

When Benvolio is fifteen, he and Mercutio sit in the courtyard alone, together. Romeo is being tutored, and because he is falling behind in his Greek lessons, wasn’t able to get out of them for the day.

“I have decided,” Mercutio says out of the blue, “who I want to marry.”

Benvolio laughs. “Thou art young,” he says, “how can one know so early who they are meant to marry?”

Mercutio sneers at him, but the expression falls easily enough—he can’t hold any anger towards Benvolio for very long at all, it seems, because Benvolio is the one person whose challenges he enjoys. “I have known for some time,” he answers, and he takes a moment to slide closer to Benvolio’s side on the marble bench they share. “Wouldst thou like to know who?”

“I am always curious who can sustain Mercutio’s attention for longer than a minute,” Benvolio answers pleasantly, teasingly. Despite his tone, he feels…jealous. It’s almost certainly unreasonable, he thinks, but even still, it’s there and it tugs at him and while he has felt jealousy before, it’s never been so…upsetting.

“Benvolio,” Mercutio says, and at this point he is almost too close, and Benvolio can smell the cologne he must wear and it’s especially pungent today, almost as if he’s put on more than usual. “I have decided that I will marry thee.”

Suddenly, it all makes sense, and Benvolio looks down at Mercutio unsure how to respond. “Thou art young,” he says again. “Who is to say if thou won’t change thy mind in a day or a year or four?”

“Art thou so doubtful of my convictions? They run strong, Benvolio.”

“They always do,” Benvolio responds, voice faint.

“Wilt thou have me?”

It’s eerily reminiscent of the first time they met, he thinks to himself, and even now if Mercutio does not look so much like a cherub anymore, he still resembles a teenaged Cupid with his bow-shaped lips and curly hair and bright red cheeks. (It is possible that he might be wearing rouge to accompany the cologne, and Benvolio wonders if perhaps Mercutio intended to seduce him then and there.)

“We’re young,” Benvolio repeats, and he frowns. “If in a few years thou still wishes—”

“—And I will—”

“Then perhaps, but—” Benvolio cuts himself off and stares at Mercutio, who looks like he might start crying at any second. “Oh, Mercutio, no. Do not cry, please—” He touches Mercutio’s hand, lets his own hold over it. “Please. Know that, despite this, I do love thee.”

Mercutio looks at him, bites his bottom lip and breathes deeply. “Thou dost love me?”

“Aye.”

“Kiss me, then, and prove it.”

“If thou insists, I must.” It’s his first kiss—and Mercutio’s, as far as he can tell—and secretly, he’s pleased that it’s like this. Even if Mercutio decides that he doesn’t want to marry Benvolio, he at least kissed him.

—

“Thou art cruel to Romeo,” Benvolio tells him when they are 17 and 16, respectively. Mercutio laughs.

“And it is my fault that he thinks he falls in love with every single girl he meets?” he asks, a little too loud and a little too bitter. “I cannot help it if I should want to save my dear friend from the inevitable heartbreak at least once in his life.”

“He is fourteen, same as thee two years past.”

“And I was just as well a fool.”

Benvolio opens his mouth to speak, but Mercutio has already turned from him, begun to walk away, and there are too many people around for him to call out without causing a scene. Instead, he tries to keep up, and manages well enough despite Mercutio’s ability to sift through the crowd like water in somebody’s hands. It’s when they’re out of the thicket of people, nearly by the Prince’s palace, that Benvolio is able to catch him, to wrap a hand around his wrist and stop him.

“Mercutio,” he says softly, and when Mercutio turns to face him, he is crying angry, hot tears that leave bright red trails over his pink cheeks.

“Oh!” he cries out, “is it really different now?”

“No,” Benvolio says after a time. He lets go of Mercutio’s wrist. “No, I suppose it is not.”

“Let it be, then, Benvolio,” Mercutio says, face hard as marble. “Wilt thou allow me this much?” He turns again and leaves Benvolio standing there while he enters the palace alone.

—

It is a year after that incident (which Mercutio acts as if had never happened and Benvolio followed suit) when they are alone in the Montague courtyard. The truth is, Mercutio has become more and more lovely with each passing year and though he could easily have anybody, he has chosen nobody. Benvolio watches him out of the corner of his eye while they sit together under a tree that has been growing for several generations. For once, Mercutio seems to be quiet, willing to wait for Romeo to finish with his lessons for the day (for it seems that Romeo, of them all, has the most, and it is probably because he is without contest the heir to a title and must live up to it).

Over the past year, Romeo has become more and more involved with unrequited love, more melancholy when they do not progress, and ultimately more heartbroken when girls either enter convents or are married to other men. Mercutio has not stopped his teasing, and Benvolio has not stopped feeling a pain in his own chest whenever Mercutio mocks Romeo.

“Mercutio?” he asks, and Mercutio looks up at him.

“Yes, Benvolio? That is my name, and there is nobody else here.”

He looks at Mercutio, a frown on his face. “Didst thou not believe me, when I said I loved thee?”

“What a strange thing to ask.”

“Why strange? A year ago—I had incurred thy wrath, and I wondered then as I wonder now if thou did not believe me.”

Mercutio’s lips turn upwards at the corner, but it’s a mean smile and he turns his head away from Benvolio. “We were children, as Romeo is now. Why should it be that I believe the words of a fifteen year old boy?”

“Because what if,” Benvolio says, “they are still true today, and I love thee now as I did when I was a fifteen year old boy, and when I was barely an eleven year old child, too?”

“Pretty words, Benvolio,” Mercutio answers, “though I do not think I believe in love at all.”

“Then thou dost not believe me,” he says, flatly, and Mercutio shakes his head.

“Thou may proclaim thy love for me, and thou may very well believe it, but I—I do not think I think I should.” He frowns and stands. “Perhaps it is time for me to take leave. Romeo’s lessons have proceeded too long, and I have other obligations.” Benvolio stands as well, looks down at Mercutio.

“I shall accompany thee to the door.”

“I know my way.”

“Mercutio, please.”

Mercutio does not move, instead stand still, looking at his and Benvolio’s feet. “Doth thou truly state thy affections? Do not lie,” he says, and there is some hope in his voice alongside sharpness.

“Aye, it is the truth. I love thee more and more with each passing day.”

“Thy words sound as if they come from Romeo himself.” Even still, Mercutio is smiling now, inching closer towards. “Wilt thou hate me, if I do not say I am in love? I cannot. I—when I do not know, for sure, whether I believe in it or not—”

“Oh, Mercutio,” Benvolio says, “I do not believe I could ever hate thee. I shall wait, then, until thou art sure in that conviction that love exists—or does not—and if thou decides it does, then—”

“Do not make promises if thou art not sure they can be kept,” Mercutio says. He looks away, cheeks turning red. “But, perhaps if thou could impart some token of thy affection…”

“Mercutio, art thou asking for another kiss?”

“Do I ask for anything?” he turns his head up and kisses Benvolio without waiting for an answer, and Benvolio wraps his arms around him as best he can without worrying that he might slip away. It’s different, now, and for good reason. Both feel more inclined to kiss a little deeper, to run hands through hair and hold tighter onto one another, and when they do pull away, it is not out of a lack of certainty as to how they should proceed but rather because they hear the tell-tale sound of Romeo’s shoes clicking against the floor bordering the courtyard and it wouldn’t do well to be caught so early by him.

—

When Benvolio is 19 years old, he lays in bed on a Saturday morning with Mercutio beside him. This isn’t the first time they have woken up together—and hopefully won’t be the last, but tensions have been rising between the Montagues and Capulets and Mercutio, unfortunately, has chosen to take place in the fight.

“I might as well be a Montague,” he says, curling closer against Benvolio.

“I worry for thy safety.”

“Worry not! I am a far better swordsman than the King of Cats. He could not cut me down without aid from another.”

“And I do not think he would be above doing so, even if thou believes his pride might not allow it,” Benvolio answers. Mercutio yawns before climbing on top of Benvolio, sitting upright and straddling. “It is early in the morning. Doth thou wish to wake the entire household? Thou art unable to hold in thy voice when—”

“Peace, Benvolio. It is still dark outside—and therefore, it is still, for all it is worth, night. We bear the gift of its cloak as long as we can before it is taken from us, revealing what we are inch by inch as the sun comes from where it sleeps nestled in the hills.” Benvolio rolls his eyes, and Mercutio frowns. “If that doth not convince ye, then hear this.”

He leans down close so that his chest hovers over Benvolio’s, holds himself up with his hands on the other man’s shoulders and presses a kiss against his chin before moving to his mouth. “I hear nothing, sweet Mercutio,” Benvolio says softly.

“I have said nothing, then?” He smiles coyly before relaxing his arms and laying atop Benvolio. “Then perhaps I have nothing to repeat.”

“Mercutio—”

“Ah, the patient Benvolio reveals an impatient man beneath his cool facade.” He looks at Benvolio before closing his eyes. “I am still not sure love exists, but if it does, then I am most certainly in love with thee. I may have been since we were children, in fact, but I know this must come as a surprise to thee.”

It takes Benvolio a moment to understand exactly what it is Mercutio is saying, but when he does, a grin comes over his face and he rolls them both over and pulls the sheets so that they are covered entirely. “Mercutio,” he says, feeling breathless, “is this the truth?”

Mercutio bites his bottom lip. “Aye,” he answers, “it may very well be. And, since that is the case, as I believe it must be, my proposal stands. Wilt thou have me?”

“And entertain thee, and kiss thee, and marry thee, yes,” Benvolio says, face red. He presses down and kisses Mercutio, Mercutio who responds by wrapping his legs about Benvolio’s waist and rocking his hips upwards. “I shall go, in the morning, to the Prince and ask if he will allow it, and—”

“Ah, Benvolio, as I am usually inclined to agree with hastiness,” Mercutio says, “I think we ought to wait, at least a few more months, before we do anything else. Besides, in the eyes of an ever-present God, is not our own, non-official marriage consummated now?”

“Not at this present second but it will be, if thou might give me a few more minutes,” Benvolio says, and Mercutio laughs before tugging him in for another kiss.

—

Benvolio is 19 years old and is alone. He wakes in the middle of the night drenched a cold sweat and knows, immediately, that Mercutio is missing, but it takes a moment—and sometimes he is even halfway down the hall before it happens—to remember that Romeo is gone as well. His uncle may have finally reached an end to the feud between the Montagues and Capulets, but without Lady Montague his life seems to be at an end, as well.

Benvolio has never felt so alone in his life. Even when his own parents were taken by the plague (and here, he remembers that Mercutio, too, lost his own to the same disaster), he had Romeo and he was welcomed into the main Montague household. He never thought he would inherit the place, never thought he would have to worry about any of this—and he would pass it up, but there is nobody he could turn the title to.

It matters not. He will have to find somebody—he is not sure he could live with a wife, not like this, and without a wife he cannot have an heir. But for now, he is 19 years old and he is alone and he does not want to think about the future.


End file.
